The Wish Granter (Ravenspire #2)(34)

Unless the king was one of the poor fools who’d made a wish.

Sebastian’s chest ached with tension, and he forced himself to breathe steadily. What the king was doing wasn’t his concern. Sebastian had a job to do. And he had to do it before Teague realized his collector wasn’t coming home.

He bent toward the body again, gauging the best way to transport it.

The princess stepped forward and addressed the king and Ajax.

“You both need medical attention. For now, we have to assume that Teague has a way of knowing whether the message was delivered. Cleo, please get them into the palace and then call for the physician to see to the two of them. Make sure the staff knows that a man attacked them in the garden and then ran off when you showed up. If Teague hears that story, and the physician’s records document their injuries, we have a chance to make Teague believe his man delivered his message and left here safely.”

“What about you?” Cleo asked as she began helping Ajax walk toward the palace.

“You need to return to the palace too, Ari.” The king’s voice was pained, and coughs racked his body. Probably a broken rib.

“Not until I’ve helped Sebastian with the bo—” The princess choked on the word body and cleared her throat. “With him. Go to the palace and be convincing when you tell the story. Give Sebastian and me forty minutes and then send guards out to patrol the grounds as if you believe the man could come back.”

As Cleo, Ajax, and the king made their way out of the garden, the princess rejoined Sebastian, who was crouched beside the body. The air was thick with the metallic sweetness of blood.

“We can’t drag him off the palace grounds without leaving a trail,” Sebastian said. “Plus, he’ll be heavy and cumbersome. We need a—”

The princess jerked away from the man, stumbled to the grass, and fell to her knees retching.

Sebastian stood and moved toward her, his hands hovering in the air above her bent head.

What was he supposed to do? Pat her on the back? Hold her hair away from her face?

Pretend he couldn’t see her?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she huddled on the ground, her shoulders suddenly shaking with sobs.

Panic laced through Sebastian, hot and bright. This was worse than the vomiting. A pat on the back wouldn’t fix this. Nor would pretending he couldn’t hear her. He should go to the palace and get Cleo.

He didn’t have time for that. The palace guards would be patrolling soon, and he had no idea how much time was left before Teague realized there was a problem.

He was all the comfort the princess had.

With that daunting thought in mind, he leaned down, took her shoulders, and gently moved her away from the mess on the grass.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped again, her body trembling as if she were caught in a gale.

His mother had cried sometimes. When his father turned on her instead of on his sons. When she had a rare moment of realizing that the life she’d dreamed of was never going to be within her reach. But when his mother cried, she didn’t want soft words of comfort. She wanted pipe weed and a stiff mug of ale.

The princess would want words and—stars help him—a steadying touch to help her see that everything was going to be all right.

Slowly he lowered himself to the ground beside her, his heart aching in an unfamiliar way when she carefully leaned away to give him space while she cried.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice catching on sobs. “I thought I could keep myself together long enough to get this done, but . . . he’s dead. And I did it. And the worst part?”

She tipped her head up to look at him, her tears glittering in the starlight. “I’d do it again. Without hesitation. Even knowing that I would hit him hard enough to kill him. I’d do it again if it meant stopping him from hurting my brother.”

“I know,” he said, and wished he had other words. Better words. Words that would wipe the horror from her face and give her peace instead.

Her breath shuddered, and she wiped at her cheeks with her palms. “And I’m about to get up and haul his body somewhere else in order to protect myself. To protect my brother. What kind of person does that make me?”

“The kind of person who doesn’t flinch from doing what needs to be done to protect those you love, even when it costs you a piece of yourself,” he said quietly. “And the kind of person who knows how to stay in control of your emotions long enough to make decisions and give orders.”

“I’m not sure that sounds like a very good person.”

He met her gaze. “I’m sure.”

She swayed toward him, her arm brushing his, and then straightened again. They sat in silence for a moment, and every second that ticked by felt like an eternity.

“Your Highness, I’m sorry about this, but we need to move. If you’d rather not help with—”

“Ari.” Her voice was husky with the residue of tears.

“I can’t call you that.” He stood and offered her his hand.

Her fingers were cold and trembling. He wrapped the warmth of his hand around hers and pulled her gently to her feet. The moment she was standing, he let her go, but his skin didn’t crawl at the memory of her touch, and his blood didn’t boil with the awful need to flee or get ready for a fight.